Helen Fields - Perfect Remains

‘She’s the reason you joined up?’ Ava asked.

‘She was a part of it,’ he said. ‘It was simplistic, but at the time it made sense. I served in the French police force until I was thirty, then transferred to Interpol where I’ve been for the last five years.’

‘So what made you leave?’ Ava asked. Her phone buzzed and she paused to read a text, frowning fiercely and muttering under her breath.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Another baby has been left in the same park, still alive and on its way to the hospital but the paramedics don’t expect it to survive. How can it be happening again? I’m sorry, Luc, I’ve got to go. I feel bad for leaving mid-conversation.’

‘Don’t,’ he replied, ‘at least I found somewhere that cooks steak properly.’

She smiled. ‘Nice to know what your priorities are.’ Ava put a companionable hand on his shoulder as she walked past him. He jerked away instantaneously, hoped she hadn’t felt it but saw the question in her face. ‘See you tomorrow, Luc. You take care.’

Ava left him staring at the books, globes and brass lamps adorning the walls. It was as good a place as any to drink wine and not think. He ordered another large glass of red and watched life go by until time was called.

The next day began too early. It was the first night he’d slept properly in weeks and the awakening beep of his phone was unwelcome. It was Tripp.

‘Not sure if it’s relevant, but I’ve been going through Jayne Magee’s neighbours’ statements. One of them saw a man at about the time we think she was taken, going round the corner at the end of the street pulling a large wheelie suitcase. I know it’s unlikely but …’

‘I’ll be half an hour,’ Callanach said.

He was there in twenty minutes, uncharacteristically dishevelled, shirt unironed, socks not even distantly related. Tripp stared as Callanach walked in clutching a steaming cup of coffee without noticing that a substantial amount of it was dripping down his jacket.

‘Morning, sir. Everything all right?’

‘Show me the statement and cross-reference it with a map.’

Tripp rummaged through a box of files then laid out documents on Callanach’s desk. ‘Jayne Magee’s house is here.’ He pointed at a red mark on a large scale map of the street. ‘And here,’ he pointed again, ‘about two hundred yards away, is where the neighbour saw the male. Mrs Yale who saw him was walking her dog, coming back into Ravelston Park as the male was exiting onto Ravelston Dykes. She didn’t see where he went after that. You think it’s our man?’

Callanach was silent. He started scrabbling through desk drawers.

‘Er … need any help, sir?’

‘No, I have it.’ Callanach held up a tape measure. ‘Lie down on the floor, on your side, tuck your legs and head in as tightly as you can.’

Tripp looked towards the doorway, mouth open, jiggling from one foot to the other.

‘ Pour l’amour de Dieu , Tripp, I’m going to measure you, not kill you. Lie down.’

Tripp assumed the position and held still while Callanach stuck tape to the floor in a rough rectangle.

‘Move your feet in a bit,’ Callanach said. ‘And your elbows. Surely you can make yourself more compact than that!’

‘I can’t, if I move one limb another sticks out.’

‘ C’est des conneries! ’ Callanach muttered, throwing the measuring tape to the floor. ‘How tall is Jayne Magee?’

‘Five foot three,’ Tripp answered, giving up and rolling onto his back, arms outstretched as Callanach made for the door.

‘Salter!’ Callanach yelled towards the briefing room.

Footsteps approached at a pace and she burst through the door.

‘What, sir?’

‘Tripp will explain. We need to measure you.’ He threw the tape at them as he logged on to his computer. ‘Make yourself small, we must assume she was bound.’

They finished contorting, taping and measuring just as Callanach found what he’d been looking for on the internet. ‘The largest wheelie case available is thirty-four inches long. Is it feasible?’

‘Depends on the depth,’ Tripp said as Salter recovered. ‘But I’d say it’s possible.’

‘Salter, go to the shops,’ Callanach handed her a wad of notes, ‘and bring back a thirty-four-inch case, the deepest you can find, strong wheels. Tripp, we’re going to Ravelston Park.’

They got out of the squad car at the corner where the witness had spotted the male.

‘Two street lights, both the opposite side of the pavement from where he was walking,’ Callanach commented. ‘Many trees and high bushes. There would have been little light from the surrounding houses, they’re all situated well back from the road.’

‘He must have been turning west though, or he’d have crossed over before the corner,’ Tripp said. ‘So he either parked his car within walking distance from her house or he lives close by.’

‘He wouldn’t risk having witnesses to his route home,’ Callanach said. ‘There could easily have been more than one dog walker. The key to this is the vehicle. Have uniformed officers carry out door-to-doors within a quarter-mile radius, checking if anyone saw a man with a case getting into a car, van or truck. We should see if the witness walking the dog can tell us any more.’

Mrs Yale could be heard before she was seen, yelling at her husband to let Callanach and Tripp in, as she controlled an Airedale Terrier who appeared more hungry than friendly. She was large, in her late seventies and obviously excited by the attention.

‘Don’t mind Archie,’ she fluttered. ‘Sit yourselves down. Michael will fetch us tea, won’t you, dear?’ Her husband shuffled dutifully away.

‘Mrs Yale,’ Callanach began.

‘Isabel,’ she said. ‘Would you like biscuits with your tea?’

‘No, thank you. You saw a man leaving the road with a case. Can you describe him again?’ Callanach asked.

‘There wasn’t much to see, I’m afraid. It was dark and cold. He was wearing a long coat, grey or black, a woolly hat and a scarf right up over his mouth. He was all shadows, my darlin’.’

‘You noticed a case?’ he prompted

‘Yes, a big thing. I hate the sound those wheels make.’

‘Can you describe it in more detail?’ Tripp asked, taking a tea cup from the tray.

‘It was soft, like a giant rucksack rather than one of those hard ones. Heavy too, by the look of him pulling it. It was black, with lots of zips. Didn’t see any labels, I’m afraid.’

‘You seem to remember more about the case than the man, if you don’t mind my saying,’ Tripp commented.

‘That’s because I was closer to it. I was bending down as the man came past me, bagging Archie’s doings. My first thought was what shiny shoes the man had. You don’t see many gentlemen that bother these days. Black lace-ups. Not really the best thing in this weather.’

‘Anything else, Mrs Yale? Anything at all?’ Callanach said.

‘I hadn’t realised I’d seen anything of note.’ She fussed over biscuit crumbs. ‘But there was a faint smell about him. I don’t suppose many would recognise it nowadays, but I’m sure it was mothballs.’

‘Mothballs?’ Callanach asked Tripp, not recognising the word.

‘You hang them in closets to stop moths from eating your clothes. Not very common any more.’

‘ L’antimite . You’re sure?’ Callanach double-checked with Mrs Yale as she fed crumbs to the ravenous Archie.

‘It was the smell of my childhood, Mother swore by them. We couldn’t afford new clothes during the war, dearie, so we jolly well looked after those we had.’